Demon on Deck E-Book

Deborah Wilde

• Herausgeber: Te Da Media
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

“I don’t want you calm. I never have.” Ezra’s lips curled up into a smile with sharp edges and no warmth, his fangs peeking through. “I want you dangerous.”

When Aviva lands a baffling murder investigation, she discovers that the key to solving the crime lies in the last place she expects—a deadly magic gaming hall aboard a freaking yacht. Because why solve a supernatural murder on nice solid ground?

While she navigates this high-stakes inquiry on the high-seas, she’s also hunting a mysterious artifact. Should it fall into the wrong hands, it’s game over for any half-demons—like her.

No pressure.

But here’s the real storm on the horizon. Her ex-lover and partner-in-crime, Ezra, is still in the picture. Sparks are flying, and not the good kind. Well, not always. Old wounds and smoldering desires have resurfaced, and she’s not sure if she’ll sink or swim.

Bon voyage.

If you love Darynda Jones' Charley Davidson and Chloe Neill’s Chicagoland Vampires, Big Demon Energy delivers a smart, determined heroine, a banter-fueled vampire romance, and high-stakes supernatural intrigue.

Read the complete series now.

Leseprobe

DEMON ON DECK

Bedeviled AF #2

DEBORAH WILDE

Contents

Don’t Just Read It—Be Part of It!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Sneak Peek of Better the Demon You Know

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Don’t Just Read It—Be Part of It!

Bestselling author Deborah Wilde presents a gloriously funny, wickedly sexy urban fantasy packed with:

• A half-demon with dangerous secrets and an attitude to match.

• A charming vampire whose cryptic agendas are only outdone by his infuriatingly irresistible allure.

• A loyal crew tackling fascinating magical crimes with plenty of sparks (and chaos) along the way.

DEMON ON DECK is the second book in the Bedeviled AF series.

Deborah has a chatty newsletter where she shares what’s warming her cold, dead heart, gives sneak peeks and insider information, and holds giveaways.

Join the Wilde Ones today!

Chapter1

Spa visits were fifty percent less relaxing with a murder in the building. Even spas as painstakingly detailed and chic as Thermae, where no expense had been spared to re-create ancient Roman baths.

The corpse had been fished out of the tepidarium, the largest of four caves at Thermae, each one designed to immerse visitors in an authentic experience.

I looked up at the ceiling arching over the warm pool. The knotted-up tension in my neck and shoulders had eased thanks to the hint of lavender in the air and the soothing instrumental music piped in through speakers hidden in the rough-hewn rocks forming the walls and ceiling. Both were highly appreciated to tone down my amped excitement and nerves on my first solo lead case, even though I was still a level two operative.

Gently glowing pot lights and pillar candles in heavy glass containers painted the ripples golden. It looked heavenly. However, as tempted as I was to book a treatment, a dead person’s bathwater was not a selling point.

That said, this was far nicer than a normal crime scene.

Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, I crouched down next to the victim, careful not to slide on the damp pool deck pavers made of sumptuous blue stone, and winced at the soreness in my muscles. My glutes resented split squats with a fiery passion.

Mason Trinh, my fellow Maccabee operative, swiped beneath the woman’s thumbnail with a thin, moistened swab. “Three guesses as to cause of death and the first two don’t count. Or does that fall under higher critical thinking and knock you out of the running?”

A heart attack or drowning would have been reasonable assumptions, were it not for the fat wooden stake jammed through the woman’s heart.

“Oh, you’re in fine form today, you cranky old stump,” I said cheerfully.

His mouth kicked up in a half-smile, his bushy mustache twitching in amusement.

“Nice heft and girth, classic lines.” I nodded in approval. “This stake is a beauty for killing vamps, but it’s an odd choice of murder weapon for an Eishei Kodesh.” I hadn’t yet confirmed that our victim was a human with magic abilities, but it was a solid assumption. Had she been a vampire, all that would have been left of her was a clump of ashes, and stakes didn’t work on demons.

Ask me how I knew.

Mason sealed up the swab as evidence. His careworn expression deepened, the bags under his eyes seeming to develop new bags. “Forty years as an operative, I thought I’d seen it all, but staking someone?” He gestured to a hank of his graying hair with a latex-gloved hand, shooting me an accusing glare. “I’ve aged before my time. Idiots. What is wrong with people?”

I stood up and smoothed out my navy pinstriped trousers. “Don’t look at me. I’m neither stupid nor depraved.”

“True. I’ve got six or seven different adjectives for your list.”

“That’s still fourteen shorter than my selection for you,” I said sweetly. This was regular banter for us. Actually, I was one of the few people who looked forward to our interactions, and this was how he spoke to operatives he half respected and tolerated.

Come to think of it, I’d never met anyone who’d earned his outright admiration.

Other than Director Michael Fleischer, that is.

Mason was a legend in Maccabee circles for single-handedly solving several high-profile cases that had baffled the organization. However, the Vietnamese Canadian operative had moved from investigations to forensics about twenty years ago with a very public declaration that he’d rather spend the rest of his working days with corpses than the incompetent living.

Some days I didn’t blame him.

I returned my attention to the dead woman, whom I judged to be in her early forties. The top of her navy bathing suit was soaked in blood, one of the straps hanging off a shoulder. Funny how being stabbed ruined perfectly good swimwear. Less expected was that although her hazel eyes were wide open and her lips were parted in a slight gasp of surprise, other than that, there were no signs of tension like clenched fists, or any indication that she’d struggled with her attacker at all.

“This feels personal,” I said.

“Really?” Mason said scathingly enough to flay a person. “You don’t think someone happened to be carrying a stake, looked in at reception, and thought, I could book a facial, but that’s more of a Tuesday move.”

“Aw, there’s the tone of voice that makes newbs cry.”

He chuckled. “Worked on you more than once.”

“I’m older and deader inside now.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Are you done with the sarcasm?”

He shrugged. “Eh. But please. Continue.”

“This wasn’t random,” I said, “and I’d also rule out a contract killing, unless the murderer had instructions to send a message. Off the top of my head, that narrows the possibilities to a vamp or demon compulsion to render her motionless.”

“White flame magic is also a contender,” he said.

Those Eishei Kodesh dealt in burning passions. They amped up people’s emotions, and a powerful one could magically flood someone with calm to the point of remaining practically comatose if attacked. Handy for them, but a pain in the butt to deal with as the operative bringing them in. I hated having my emotions toyed with, for more than one reason.

“True,” I said. “Still, an Eishei Kodesh would require a lot of upper-body strength to jam that stake through skin, muscle, and bone.”

Say what you would about vampires, the same magic that enhanced their speed, hearing, smell, and strength made them vulnerable to a simple wooden stake. That still didn’t make it easy to use one. I regularly did punishing weight training sessions and went on long runs to maintain my strength and stamina, and I didn’t expect to fight many vampires in my line of work. I mostly policed Eishei Kodesh crimes.

All of which brought me back to how it would be much harder to use a stake on a human. Especially for the average person with a desk job and perilously little in the way of shoulder strength.

Ooh, this case was going to prove fun to puzzle out. Not that I wished death on anyone, but I’d spent the last two days helping out on an embezzlement case involving a fried chicken chain, where I’d combed through reams of mind-numbing files that reeked of grease.

“What else do you read from the body?” Mason liked to lob pop quizzes at operatives that had only two grades: begrudging pass or withering contempt.

The woman sported gel polish—intact and recently touched up—on all her nails and her makeup was tastefully applied.

“She came here before work,” I said. “A business owner, maybe a CEO?”

Her shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair fanned out on the deck around her head like a peacock’s tail, though her cool undercut on one side was in need of a touch-up.

“Not any field that was too conservative,” I added, “given her hairstyle.”

“The spa owner said our vic ran a private consulting firm,” Mason said. “She’s been coming to Thermae every six months or so for a few years now.”

An elaborate tattoo of vines and flowers peeked out the top of her bloody bathing suit. Sometimes tattoos had significance and sometimes they didn’t. I made a note to get a photo from Mason and look into the design later.

“What else do we know about the vic?” I said.

Mason snapped a few photos of the body. “Only what she filled out when she booked the appointment. Emily Astor. Red Flame. There’s a number and address in her file.”

Businesses dealing with Eishei Kodesh in any hands-on manner were required to have them sign liability forms in case their magic was unexpectedly unleashed, but also so that practitioners knew which safeguards to have in place. Fire extinguishers, for example, if their client was a Red Flame. That magic devoured matter and burned things away—all it took was simple physical contact.

All Eishei Kodesh, translated from the Hebrew as Holy Fire People, had fire-based magic. The same flame that burned for eight days and nights in the Hanukkah miracle was used back around 150 BCE in a ritual, now lost in the fog of time, to create inherent magic ability. There was only one kind at first (the red flame ability), which, since it was the sole type of magic, didn’t initially have a color classification.

The magic spread over the centuries through other races and religions, and, like many a trait, changed and evolved. Maccabees catalogued the new powers using a system of colors seen from largest to smallest in a flame: red, orange, yellow, white, and blue. They coincided with the order of the most common power to the rarest.

I sidestepped a puddle. “There were easier ways to kill Ms. Astor. Easier places too.” Whoever had done this hadn’t taken her out in a parking garage, but in a place where Emily went to relax. Where she let down her guard. That was more evidence that her murderer had a serious beef with her.

Speaking of security, how did the perp get into the pool undetected by the owner? There was an emergency exit door in the short corridor outside the changing rooms, which led to the alley, but I’d verified that the crash bar was dead-bolted from the inside.

I made a note to ask the owner about other employees with keys.

The other way into Thermae was through the front door, and only the owner was currently working. Mason said she’d been up front until she locked that door to come give her client a massage and found her dead.

“Where’s the owner now?” I blotted my forehead with the back of my hand. It was muggy as shit in here. Good thing my suit jacket hid pit stains. “What’s her name?”

“Dawn Keller.” Mason fished an evidence marker out of his bag and laid it next to the victim’s chest as a size indicator of the stake. “Rachel offered to stay with Ms. Keller in her office.” Rachel, another forensics tech, was a calming presence in the worst of crises. “Ms. Keller was understandably hysterical.”

Or a good actor with a killer motive. Time would tell which it was.

However, if she was innocent, then she had my sympathies. It was bad enough finding a dead body, especially one she’d gotten to know as a regular customer, but if the media got hold of this, her business would suffer. A one-off murder didn’t generally warrant Maccabee intervention with the press, but maybe I could petition the director to keep the spa’s name out of any news reports in support of a local business.

“Did you sedate her at all?” I said, hoping Mason replied in the negative. It would counteract my magic ability to spot any weakness in Dawn when I questioned her.

I couldn’t determine if someone was lying—that was a different Blue Flame talent—but most people showed signs of strain when concocting a story. I’d read those weaknesses and draw my own conclusions. My gut insisted that given the potential negative impact on Ms. Keller’s spa, she wasn’t involved, but I’d keep an open mind until that was definitively ruled out.

“No sedative,” Mason said.

“I appreciate that.” I made some notes on my phone, along with follow-up questions for our coroner, Dr. Malika Ayad, back at Vancouver Maccabee HQ.

It was best to interview Ms. Keller as quickly as possible, but first…

There was no reason to use the magic I’d inherited from my unknown demon daddy to check if Emily was a half shedim. Emily’s death wasn’t anything like that of the six infernals who were murdered in brutal ritualistic killings for their blood. However, it had been less than a week since wrapping up that investigation. I couldn’t shake off the images of their tortured bodies, never mind the persistent inkling that they were part of a much bigger scheme, with more deaths certain to come.

I slid into my magic vision.

Each type of Eishei Kodesh magic involved one characteristic of fire. Blue Flames illuminated things. We shone light on that which was hidden, applying our powers to everything from mineral veins deep underground to flaws in existing physical structures or technology.

My specialty was people, and while my talent didn’t work postmortem, my half-demon powers allowed me to identify other infernals. It was trickier when they were no longer breathing, but not impossible.

See, all Eishei Kodesh magic was synesthete, though it presented differently for the various types. We Blue Flames experienced our magic visually. I saw blue dots or streaks in people.

The main part of my demon magic had the same synesthetic quality, though I had no idea whether that was always the case or it was because it piggybacked on my Eishei Kodesh ability.

Regardless, there were shifting blue shadows in the backs of infernals’ heads—in our primal brain. This was the section responsible for survival, drive, and instinct, and the place humans operated from during a loss of rationality, when we were overpowered by strong emotions. Generally, I saw them only on people who were alive.

But as I’d recently discovered, the shifting shadows in an infernal’s brain swam down to harden into a fat blue double knot in the middle of the chest when under stress. Like when they were being murdered. All people felt shock and fear in their upper chests, but with infernals, it manifested as that double knot—and remained there postmortem.

I checked the victim’s upper chest first, relieved it was knot-free. “Can I turn her head to the side?”

“There’s no blunt trauma to the skull,” Mason said.

“I want to examine it anyway, if that won’t compromise anything.”

He motioned his assent, no doubt thinking that I was a total idiot but liking me enough to let me be one.

I carefully maneuvered her skull. No shifting shadows here either. Not that I expected it. The two other half shedim I’d examined after their deaths hadn’t shown those shadows, but best to double-check.

Emily Astor wasn’t an infernal.

Sighing in relief that this wasn’t a hate crime on top of being a terrible way to die, I pulled off my gloves with a sharp snap and thanked Mason.

He grunted, removed a pair of scissors from his bag, and cut open Emily’s bathing suit. The stake had been jammed in with so much force that it was splintered at the entry point.

Her tattoo covered her torso. It was misshapen from the swelling and bruising on her chest, but once the design was revealed, an odd detail emerged.

A perfect two-inch circle of the tattoo was missing around the wound.

“You know,” I heard myself saying, “somehow I don’t think she got herself tattooed specifically with a big stake-me-here piece missing. That’s…huh.”

“Emily Astor,” Mason said slowly, “said she was a Red Flame.”

I gestured to the perfect circle. “This is not normal⁠—”

Mason held up a hand. “Say she lied. Say she was a Yellow Flame, the kind with inherent healing magic.” He sighed. “That would explain the tattoo removal, but it would have kicked in while her killer was staking her, and also fixed her ribs. Any guesses as to how many of those are still broken?”

I scowled. “I’m going to guess it’s not the answer it should be for a Yellow Flame healer, which would be zero.”

“Two.”

“Then what’s going on here?” I threw my hands up. “Is this another teachable moment?”

“No.” His seriousness alarmed me. The most experienced forensics expert on Maccabee staff was honestly perplexed about something?

“The gap definitely isn’t on purpose. It’s not part of the design.” I narrowed my eyes, comparing the ink-free area with the rest of the tattoo. “It’s as if the stake broke the magic anchoring the ink in place and that much of her skin healed before she died. Except humans don’t require magic to prevent automatic tattoo healing.” A chill came over me. “Only vampires do.”

Vamps’ fast-acting healing abilities meant they couldn’t keep a tattoo on their body without Eishei Kodesh magic pinning it to their skin. Without the assistance of this human magic, or in a case where that magic pinning was broken, say with a stake, a vamp’s tattoo would start to disappear.

Except, there was one enormous problem with that line of thinking.

“Vamps don’t leave a body behind when they’re killed.” Mason muttered under his breath about clusterfucks happening three months away from his retirement. Operatives died in our line of work, and while most survived to live out their golden years, that downtime was well-earned.

I barely registered his comment over my heartbeat thudding against my chest like a car careening into a concrete barrier. In a world where 99.99% of all vamps were turned humans, supernatural beings who thoughtfully vanished without a trace when staked, there existed a legendary rarity.

Born vampires, also known as Primes.

The odds were against Emily being one, given that even with all my Maccabee intel, I knew of only a single existing Prime. However, in the pro column was the tattoo disruption and how born vamps were the sole undead who could grow their hair. Our vic had that undercut in need of a trim, whereas for a made vamp they couldn’t grow their hair unless they got extensions.

If my hypothesis was correct?

A breath shuddered out of me.

Say hello to Emily Astor, rare bloodsucker and giant liar. No Red Flame for her, oh no. She was a Prime, the one breaking the undead mold. I didn’t know if Primes left a body when they were killed, because there were no records of Prime murders anywhere in the Maccabee archives.

Believe me, I’d checked after I broke up with my ex.

How had someone gotten a jump on a Prime? That should have been impossible.

I took a deep breath, but inhaling a field’s worth of lavender wouldn’t calm me down. Even other vampires or demons shouldn’t have been able to compel Emily to meekly comply with her own death.

Vampires cared a lot about power. They were obsessed with presenting the image of being unkillable, untouched by the ravages of time. If word got out that a Prime, the flagship symbol of their immortality and unbeatable strength, was murdered, well, that very dangerous population was not going to be pleased.

They would, in fact, seek to restore that image of unassailable power at any cost. Knowing vampires as well as I did, that PR maneuver wasn’t going to be pretty. It would, in fact, be antonyms of “pretty.”

I raised my eyes to the ceiling. Bravo, universe, you just turned what should have been a fun murder puzzle into a terrifying mess.

Chapter2

Mason, still grumbling, hadn’t made that connection to Primes, and until I was certain I was one thousand percent correct, I didn’t dare voice it. I didn’t want to get him in trouble pursuing an unfounded theory—or spook him.

If Emily was a Prime, then the fact that those vampires didn’t dissolve into ash was a well-kept secret. So well-kept that my organization founded thousands of years ago precisely to keep humans safe from vampires and demons wasn’t aware of it, otherwise we’d have been taught something this important as novices.

I steeled my shoulders, a sick feeling in my gut, because there was only one way to quickly verify my theory.

How exactly did one ask an ex if you could stake him, then sit back and admire your handiwork? Should I lead with a joke or ask it like a scientific hypothetical? What would Ezra Cardoso, Crimson Prince and single known Prime in existence before today, prefer?

“I’m going to make a quick call,” I said.

“Okay. I’m texting Rachel to help me pack up, so meet us at the transport van in the alley.”

“Got it.” I exited the cave into the central relaxation area of Thermae.

It boasted an elaborate mosaic on the floor and a frescoed ceiling of a forest complete with stags and birds hidden among the trees. Comfort was assured with padded sling chairs, a glass shower with six jets, and to further relax clients, a table with a hot water dispenser and a basket containing tins of loose tea. The more modern décor stood out against the ancient Roman aesthetic, but it was understandable that patrons would prefer a nice chair over a historically accurate stone bench.

I eyed the chilled lemon water sweating in the glass pitcher.

Pity it wasn’t straight gin.

The four caves that created this immersive Roman bathing experience “worthiest of the noblest empress” flowed clockwise off this lounge area. Mason had given me a quick rundown on them. Each one had a fancy Latin name and a specific purpose.

The tepidarium, where Emily was found, was the first cave in a journey of pools and rooms with varying temperatures. Visitors kicked things off by relaxing in the body-temperature warmth of the water to strengthen the immune system without shocking the circulation system.

From there, they progressed to a small round cistern, where they alternated between a cold-water plunge pool and a dry-heat sauna. The third cave also had a cool-water pool, along with a steam room for sweating out toxins. The belief was that continually moving from a hot environment to a cold one stimulated blood flow, reduced tension, and improved breathing.

I wasn’t some expert on Roman ablutions; there were handy plaques at the entrance of each cave detailing their purpose. I rubbed my neck, once more a hard wall of tension. Should my hypothesis be proved wrong—and they sanitized the bathing pool—I was totally treating myself to a session here, and not coming out until I was a puddle of blissed-out jelly. Could I expense it as a health benefit?

The final cave was divided into smaller treatment rooms for massages and facials.

I pulled out my phone. I’d have privacy to call Ezra in one of the treatment rooms, but cell reception was spotty enough in here, so I shouldered through the door and along the short hallway into the changing room.

The thick wood door shut with a quiet click, enveloping me in a tranquil hush. Even the changing room was designed to relax guests, with low lighting, subtle orange-scented diffusers, and calming sandstone colors. I washed my hands with the organic soap, closing my eyes and letting the warm water from the copper taps clean off the shock and horror of my revelation about Emily being a Prime, but no amount of lathering or inhaling the gentle scents in here would make my next task less stressful.

After a quick double-check to ensure I was alone, I sat down on the bench alongside the row of lockers, which were designed to resemble blocks of stone. Only one was locked.

I’d examine Emily’s personal belongings later, but first I opened my text app. Although there was a strong cell signal here, I hesitated because this wasn’t exactly the kind of topic one broached in a casual message. I could phone Ezra, but this would be a sensitive and uncomfortable topic for both of us, and I planned to use his initial reaction to determine how shocked he was by this information. That was only possible via a video call.

Unbeknownst to me, my ex had been working as a Maccabee operative for the past four years, gathering intel under the guise of being a jet-setting playboy. His mask game was strong, but I still knew him better than anyone, even though we’d broken up six years ago and I’d seen him again only recently.

Seen him. That was the understatement of the century. Try: I was once more familiar with the feel of his lips on mine. He no longer kissed me with a shy sweetness but an electric intensity bordering on a declaration of war. We’d done a stellar job of not discussing it, keeping our conversations since then strictly professional. Asking him about staking Primes ensured there’d be no repeats.

Exactly what I wanted.

Ezra had remained at the same hotel for the past few days since we wrapped up our last case, putting out discreet feelers on our next steps to track down the blood collected from the murdered half shedim on that investigation. However, we expected him to be reassigned to his next Maccabee gig anytime now.

He might have already checked out. Be completely unreachable. I wasn’t sure whether to cross my fingers.

I stabbed the call button. Hopefully, I’d know if he lied to me when I asked my question. Not for the first time, I wished I could illuminate weaknesses in vampires, but that happened only when I was in a demon realm.

Ezra answered, wearing a towel wrapped around his waist. Water dripped from his jet-black curls onto his chiseled bare chest, glistening down his brown skin, and clouds of steam billowed in the air behind him.

I couldn’t even objectively appreciate the sight because my mind conjured an image of his silvery-blue eyes dulled and lifeless, blood seeping down that immaculate torso, speared with a stake.

“Did you just moan?” he said in an amused voice, his smooth, low baritone hitting me like a shot of the finest whiskey.

I scrubbed a hand over my face, banishing the image of him impaled like Emily.

Ezra frowned and peered at the screen. “You look ill, and since it couldn’t possibly be the sight of my⁠—”

I swung a locker door open and shut with a loud clang, like I required the momentum of the action to voice my question. “Do Primes leave a body when staked?”

His expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened with the barest flash.

I white-knuckled the phone.

“Vampires don’t leave bodies,” he said.

I closed my eyes. Nice avoidance.

“Aviva?” he said sharply.

I blinked them open and began pacing alongside the long stone table under the mirrors, which held fluffy piles of folded robes and towels along with baskets of bath products. “Female, reddish-blond hair, hazel eyes, looks in her early forties. She was staked during a spa visit.”

Ezra laughed, but it had a bladed edge. “I hope she didn’t pay extra for a happy ending.” He shifted the angle of the screen, allowing me to glimpse the tattooed line in Spanish on his left bicep. I grabbed a screenshot to examine it later because he hadn’t been inked when we were together, and this was the first time I’d had a clear view of it.

The combination of Ezra having a more muscular physique than when we’d been together and this unfamiliar tattoo made me feel momentarily disoriented. The photos I’d seen of him over the past six years were impersonal snapshots. Seeing him bare chested, it hit me in a visceral way that this body was, in effect, a stranger’s.

I was no longer the woman most familiar with the shape of him, and it took me aback that despite everything, some part of me had believed I was. Not that I was the person to unravel his intricate psychological layers, but that I still held the map to his body, and where other lovers might know the divot of his hips or the swell of his biceps, I alone had charted every inch.

A pang of betrayal twisted in my stomach. He’d gone and redeveloped himself like he wanted nothing of his past to remain. Yet, intertwined with this betrayal was a sense of curiosity and intrigue. Who was this new Ezra? What experiences had shaped him into the man before me? It was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying to think that there were parts of him I had yet to discover.

He slid on a knitted bathrobe in royal blue that resembled a boxer’s wrap with an oversize hood that looked crazy comfy. Had he made that, sitting by a fire, letting the click of the needles and the feel of the yarn wash away his cares?

I wrenched my eyes—and my thoughts—away, and exhaled. This call was getting off track. “Any idea how someone could attack a Prime without them fighting back?” I injected a note of levity into my voice, hoping to make him amenable to giving me some useful information. “For reasons purely related to the case.”

“They couldn’t,” he said flatly.

Yes, you are the baddest of the bad. I massaged my temples. We all bow down before your prowess. I gathered my shredded patience by my metaphoric fingertips and swallowed any snarky retort. “Our victim had a tattoo covering her torso, except on the broken skin surrounding the weapon.”

Ezra went so still that I checked to make sure the screen hadn’t frozen, but no, he’d grasped this damning piece of evidence. “Stop all forensics and lock the scene down immediately until I get there,” he commanded.

My ex’s first language was Spanish, and though he usually didn’t have an accent when he spoke English, it peppered his harsh tone now.

His anger didn’t bother me, but his high-handed directive sure did. He’d shown up on our previous investigation with special dispensation from the Maccabee Secretary of the Authority Council to lead it, though that wasn’t the case now. This was plain old Prime paranoia and self-defense. And okay, maybe a heaping side of Ezra-knows-best.

However, in the end, this was my investigation and mine alone.

“If you have relevant information,” I said, “then share it with me. As the lead operative on the scene, I’ll take appropriate action.”

Good thing Ezra didn’t need to breathe because his cursing me out in Spanish went on for a long time. He curled his fingers in like claws, and I got the sense that he wished he could reach through the screen and throttle me. “Have you forgotten our last case so soon? Someone put a target on infernals’ backs. Now you want to be front and center on a case involving a Prime that is going to attract unwanted attention? Do you want to be found out?”

I’d guarded the secret of my half-shedim nature (“shedim,” the plural Hebrew term, was used conventionally for both singular and multiple demons, like the word “fish”) from everyone except my mother and Ezra. However, another vampire and Maccabee operative called Roman Whittaker, who’d been one of the two killers in our last case, had known what I was.

I hadn’t shared that bombshell with anyone; Ezra was simply extrapolating from the bigger picture.

He was also evading my order to report any relevant information.

“I’m a Maccabee with a job to do,” I said with steely steadiness. “I took an oath, and I won’t run away, regardless of who or what the victim is, or how dangerous this case is. I didn’t do it when my kind was being killed and I won’t do it when yours is.”

“You’re not equipped to deal with this,” he said with forced patience. “Only I am.”

Cherry Bomb, the Brimstone Baroness, as I fondly called my shedim side, opened her eyes from the dark pool deep inside me where she lived. She whispered several bloodthirsty, violent, and possibly anatomically impossible ways to show Ezra how wrong he was.

Yeah, she was me, and yeah, I referred to her in the third person. It was like how some people talked about their lizard brain or subconscious self as a separate being from their logical side. Granted, when other people said, “You don’t want to meet the person I am before I’ve had my coffee—she’ll destroy you!” they generally didn’t mean it in a literal sense. But my Cherry Bomb was a bit more intense than your garden variety id.

“If me or my forensics team are in danger, then tell me. Right. Now.” I practically growled into the phone.

“You’re not. None of you are.”

I searched his face, but my gut said he was telling the truth. Then what was with his reaction? Damn Ezra and his secrets.

“Do I have to secure the scene for any reason other than you keeping your cards close to your chest?” I said.

“Step away from this, Aviva.”

“I’ll add that to my to-do list. Now, if you have nothing to add…?”

“Don’t you da⁠—”

I hung up on him. Then I slammed two or three locker doors and let out a strangled scream.

For all I knew, he intended to not only steamroll this investigation but invoke some bullshit political reason and keep us from finding Emily’s killer at all.

Well, tough shit. He wasn’t going rogue to hunt that person down. The perp had to face justice, not vengeance.

Prime or not, Ezra had taken the same Maccabee vow that I had: tikkun olam.

The Hebrew phrase and our organization’s motto referred to a mystical approach to all mitzvot, or good deeds. Broadly, it communicated the responsibility of Jews, now extended to all operatives, to fix the wrongs in the world.

Ezra could suck it up and play ball.

I shook off my irritation.

Mason would transport Emily’s body to Malika at HQ any moment now. Our coroner would figure out that the victim was a Prime, and I had to speak to our director before that happened.

Oh joy. Perhaps if I spiked Michael’s tea with a handful of Xanax before casually mentioning the murdered Prime in her territory she’d be chill about it? Hmm. Best to do a sweep of her office for projectiles, just to be safe.

I still had to speak to the spa owner, Dawn Keller, but I also needed to give Mason and Rachel a heads-up to stay alert for any trouble. I had nothing concrete to caution them about, but Emily being a Prime meant trouble on its own, even without Ezra’s cagey warning. Sadly, I didn’t dare tell them her status until I’d spoken to the director.

I entered the lounge area expecting the team to still be packing up. Mason’s insistence on fitting things back in the van like he was playing Tetris with his life on the line made cleaning up a lengthy process.

But there was no sign of Mason, Rachel, the body, or any of Mason’s gear. The candles in the tepidarium had all been snuffed out, and the music was off.

My poor heart had finally returned to a normal rhythm after the call with Ezra. Now either Mason had ditched his Tetris organizational ways for good (unlikely) or something had happened to my team. Bye-bye, calm.

A petite plump woman in her fifties, her trousers rolled up and her feet in flip-flops, hosed down the pool deck. She gave me a vaguely confused smile and tilted her head, making her dangling silver earrings swing. “Hello, dear. Do you have an appointment today or are you interested in more information about our services at Thermae?”

The skin between my shoulder blades prickled. This was the woman who’d been freaking out because a client had been killed in her spa? “Ms. Keller?”

“Yes, of course.” She smiled, a perfect customer service smile unmarred by unexpected corpses and panic. “I’m always so pleased whenever anyone’s heard of my services. Word of mouth and trust is so crucial in my profession.”

Luckily (or unluckily) for her, the strength to stake a vampire was also not crucial to her profession. This was also not a case of Rachel doing too good a job to calm Dawn down. Something was off.

I broke out my blue flame magic and scanned her for weakness. Her brain had deep navy swathes in it, indicating someone had messed with her mind. I tapped my fist against my forehead; a poor substitute for banging my head against the wall. “Were a man and a woman just here?”

“No.” She twisted the copper tap shut. “I haven’t had any clients yet today.” She stumbled over the words, then frowned, her brows creased.

“Wait here. I’ll be back.” I bolted out of the spa area, down the corridor, and crashed through the emergency exit into the alley.

The transport van was gone.

Rain slanted down on me as I hit Mason’s contact number, chanting “Pick up pick up” under my breath, but he didn’t answer. Neither did Rachel.

I ran back into the spa on rubbery legs, but I couldn’t let my anxiety for my colleagues’ safety show and upset Dawn.

“My name is Aviva Fleischer and I’m a level two Maccabee operative. I need you to come with me, please.” I showed Dawn the brushed gold pillbox ring on my right index finger, identifying me as a Maccabee.

We’d named ourselves after the heroes of the Hanukkah miracle—honoring them and their flame that formed the basis of our magic. Our ring reflected that heritage. The top of its round compartment featured an embossed flame circled by five tiny gems symbolizing each type of magic: red, orange, yellow, white, and blue.

All human Maccabees received their rings upon graduating from Maccababy novice to level one operative, and we never took them off. The part of our initiation ceremony that meant the most to me was the moment I slid the ring onto my finger and pledged the Maccabee motto. Finally, I was a part of something bigger than myself, changing the world for the better rather than trying to stop it from getting any worse.

“I can’t leave.” Dawn shook her head. “I have a client.”

“They canceled.” Rachel had phoned people booked in for today. “Please. Time is of the essence.” When Dawn didn’t comply, I prodded her to lock up and hustled her as nicely as possible to my car, skirting the bigger puddles. She’d grabbed a rain jacket; I got wet.

Dawn was understandably furious and upset, threatening to file a complaint against me. I sighed. It was better to have her alive and angry than another victim. More of a victim than she already was, I amended, given her current memory loss.

Regardless, I had to find Mason and Rachel, and I wasn’t leaving Dawn alone.

I helped her into the car and ran around to the driver’s side, phoning in a request to activate the tracker on the transport van. All official Maccabee vehicles had them. If I didn’t justify the request with proper paperwork, I’d have a strip torn off me later, but that was a problem for future me. All that mattered now was that my request was granted by the time I cranked the ignition in my beat-up hatchback.

I squealed out of my parking spot, following the pulsing red line on my phone’s screen toward Mason, Rachel—and Emily’s corpse.

My wipers sped back and forth, a metronome to my panic level as I wove in and out of traffic, smashing down on my horn every few seconds.

Dawn screamed that I was a maniac and she’d see me arrested for kidnapping.

The gap to the transport van narrowed on the tracking screen, but the lump in my gut grew because they weren’t headed to HQ.

I jammed my foot down harder on the gas pedal; too bad it was already floored.

Minutes later, I caught up to the van. It was parked in one of the two stalls around the back of a café.

“Stay!” I barked at Dawn.

Rachel sat in the passenger seat, scrolling on her phone. She jumped when I rapped on the window. “Aviva?”

I practically hopped up and down, flooded with anxiety. “Where’s Mason? Where’s the body?”

“What body? We stopped for coffee. You want one? I’ll text him.”

I sprinted around the back of the van and threw open the doors.

Mason’s bag and laptop were gone. There was no evidence.

And no Emily.

I screamed out a swear so loud it scattered the birds from the trees.

Someone had killed a Prime and then stolen the corpse out from under the Maccabees. When this got out, there’d be a huge outcry, some very angry vampires, and who knew what response from the members of the Authority.

I braced a hand on the van door, my chest tight.

Someone would be blamed for this colossal mess, and I was the operative in charge on the scene. I’d spent less than two hours on my first case as a solo lead, and at this rate, they were likely to be my last. Heads were going to roll, mine probably among them. Hopefully not literally, but then again, we were working with vampires and the director, and with those two dangerous entities, nothing was off the table.

Chapter3

One hundred and thirty-seven seconds was nothing in the grand scheme of life, not even a blip. However, I’d swear that in the one hundred and thirty-seven seconds that had passed between me delivering my status report and now, an entire ice age had manifested.

Maybe that glacial silence from Michael Fleischer, the director of the Vancouver chapter of the Maccabees, was actually shock, given she’d just learned I was the only person with any memory of the crime scene, and that we had no evidence and no body.

Or maybe the silence simply felt glacial because Michael—tapping her pen against the blotter on her desk at hummingbird speed—was also my mother. There was a chance I was oversensitive to her silences. Where others clocked a thoughtful pause, I saw a dangerous calculation.

Perhaps she was simply running through all the ramifications and implications of this crime, and the steely glint in her green eyes was not a visual cue that she was about to tear into me for this gong show.

Yeah, that was wishful thinking. With my luck, it’d be Michael calculating and tearing me apart at the same time. My mother was nothing if not efficient.

It didn’t matter that there was no way I could have foreseen any of this. Maccabees did not engage in excuses. We also did not assign blame, for example, on our exes for not being one hundred percent clear and precise that our victim’s corpse was at risk of being body snatched.

I was the lead on-site, and I should have done more to secure the scene.

Don’t lose the body. Procedure 101. My fellow operatives were going to have a field day when this got out.

I risked a glance at Darsh, the vampire Maccabee I’d brought with me to Michael’s office. He was the first member of the Spook Squad that I’d found when I got back to HQ, and with a possible Prime as our victim, he needed to be in this meeting. He was also my good friend who I desperately wanted here for moral support.

Or, at almost six feet to my five-foot-five, to hide behind, if necessary.

Darsh looked from Michael to me, widened his large brownish-gold eyes, which were ringed in dark liner, cocked his head sideways, and mimed being caught in a hangman’s noose.

I glared at him.

He winked and crossed one long leg over the other, the complicated buckles on his pants clinking softly. “Michael,” he drawled, “could you put me in charge of this case before you stroke out?”

I sat up ramrod straight, internally cursing my still rain-damp suit. The fabric was bunched in the most unfortunate places. “No way. I’m the only one with any memory of the crime scene. We’ll partner up.”

Co-leading wouldn’t earn me my coveted promotion to level three, but at this point, I wasn’t sure what would.

Darsh ran a hand over his cropped black faux fur sweater with a disarming casualness. “The victim wasn’t simply a vampire, she was a Prime. This is Spook Squad jurisdiction.” He pursed his lips into a mock pout. “Also, not to rub salt in an obviously fresh wound, but all of my bodies have an excellent track record of staying where I leave them.”

I was going to kill him.

“Since it’s all about you,” Michael said without heat.

He knotted his shoulder-length silky brown hair into a messy bun. “Obviously.”

I no longer braced myself when he snarked back at her. Mostly. I also no longer felt that sting of jealousy that he always got away with it.

Less mostly.

“How about some credit for figuring out Emily was a Prime and not a Red Flame?” I said. “Otherwise, this investigation would be headed down the wrong road and wasting valuable time.” I crossed my arms. “Michael. Come on. I take full responsibility for what happened, but I’m the only one who has any firsthand knowledge of the crime scene. It’s more expedient to allow me to at least co-lead.”

“Director Fleischer, my apologies.” Boyd Cranston, the level three operative who’d assigned me the case, poked his head in. He wasn’t unusually tall or thin, but when he moved, he left the impression that he was part human, part wacky-waving-inflatable-car-lot-tube-man.

Inwardly, I groaned. I’d hoped he wouldn’t catch wind of my return until after Michael verified I was still in charge.

Dawn Keller had called the Maccabees when she found Emily’s body, instead of the Trad (self-labeled Traditionals, or people without magic) cops, since according to the victim’s paperwork, she was Eishei Kodesh.

The level one operative who took the call passed it up the chain to a level three as per procedure, and Boyd was available. He’d reassigned the case to me, a level two. An atypical move.

Boyd loped across the office and grasped me by the upper arm. “Fleischer should have reported to me directly. I’m so sorry that she troubled you. I’ll handle this.” His fake concern over Michael’s well-being combined with his ingratiating smile and weaselly voice turned my stomach.

I pulled free.

“There’s nothing to handle, Boyd,” the director said mildly. “I’m reassigning the case.”

Darsh and I leaned forward, waiting for the object of the sentence, but Michael did not elaborate.

Boyd crossed his arms, an ungainly maneuver where one arm came up first and then the other flopped over it. “You can’t. I’m the ranking operative who took the call.”

Michael leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers. “Everyone is so helpful today, reminding me how chain of command works.” She broke out a smile reminiscent of one that Bruce, the shark in Finding Nemo, wore—before he went for blood.

I hastily looked over at the wall of living green bamboo reeds so as not to meet her eyes. Darsh, meantime, had gotten very interested in his sparkly blue nail polish.

Boyd, the idiot, continued sulking and looking directly at her. He could have only learned that Mason and Rachel had their memories wiped, but that was more than sufficient to make this case interesting enough that he wanted it back. “I figured the last time you let your daughter have a hand in running a case that it was a one-off, but if you continue to play favorites, I’ll⁠—”